Guardians of the Keep: Book Two of the Bridge of D'Arnath (12 page)

Age grants you no privilege to violate your Prince, because age has clearly not dimmed your gifts. The

Wastes await those who take such liberties. Be warned.” To my relief, my voice neither croaked nor

wavered.

The old man curled his lip, but withdrew. Dassine’s satisfaction wafted through the air from behind me

like scented smoke. In truth, my thoughts were in such confusion, no one could have learned anything

from them.

Y’Dan, a thin, dry stick of a man, would not rise when I touched his shoulder. He shook his hairless

brown skull vigorously, chewed on a bony knuckle, and refused to look me in the eye. “My lord”—he

dropped his voice to a whisper so that I had to bend close to his mouth to hear— “listen, my lord. I beg

you listen.” He wanted me to read his thoughts.

I nodded, uneasy, for this was an act I had not been capable of performing as D’Natheil, and that

custom had been strictly forbidden in my other life. But the Preceptorate had been told that whatever I

had done to restore the Bridge had changed me, so I left off worrying and opened my mind to him.

. . .
murder . . . conspiracy . . . treachery . . . your forgiveness, my lord. . . . we did not know

you . . . our faith lost. . . the Zhid among us ... we thought it was the only way. . .
. Searing,

consuming guilt. Impossible to sort out the flood of incoherent confession that accompanied it. Who had

been murdered? My father perhaps or my brothers? What was the conspiracy of which he spoke?

Confused and wary, I put my finger to his silent lips, telling him to stop. “Another time,” I said. “I’ll

hear you in private.” Sometime when I knew what he was talking about.

Madyalar looked more like a fishwife than a Preceptor of Gondai. Rawboned and red-cheeked, her

gray hair tangled, she stood almost as tall as I. The soft-hued stripes of her billowing robe kept subtly

shifting their colors, confusing the eye. Madyalar had been an Examiner when I was a boy, one who

supervised Dar’Nethi mentoring relationships such as mine with Exeget. Though I had counted no one as

a friend in those days, she had fought a running battle with Exeget over my care. That lent her a bit of

grace in my sight, though, in truth, the course she had espoused was no more dignified than Exeget’s,

only less violent. She had declared that the only humane path was to teach me enough of duty, manners,

and cleanliness that I could father a new Heir as soon as possible.

When she stood up after her genuflection, she probed me, not illicitly with her mind as Ustele had

done, but with warm, rough hands that quickly and firmly traced every contour of my face.

“I hope I have exceeded your expectations, Mistress Madyalar,” I said to her. I started to add, “even

though I’ve produced no son.” But in a moment’s unsettling clarity, I realized that I didn’t know whether

I had fathered any children. I—Karon—was forty-two years old, so Dassine had told me. Twenty of

those years were still missing. The thought was disconcerting, one I could ill afford in my present

situation. I closed my eyes for a moment, afraid the world might disintegrate.

Madyalar drew me back. “You are no longer the boy I examined for so many years, my lord.”

My eyes flew open. She had a curious smile on her face.

“My bruises tell me that I am.”

She cast her eyes slightly to her right where Exeget was studiously gazing out of the window. “I don’t

doubt that. Childhood bruises sting long after their discolor has faded. Though I would like to avoid

contributing to Dassine’s inflated opinion of himself, you seem changed for the better. Whether it is the

old devil’s skill in teaching or merely the fact that he saved your life until you matured on your own, the

air is quiet about you now, whereas before it was a constant tumult. You bear many burdens that you did

not when we saw you last, and you carry them with a strength that is different from that you displayed as

a youth. And you have gray in your hair, Your Grace.”

“Years will do that.” No sooner had I said the words than I knew I’d made a mistake. The tension in

the room drew tighter, and the dozen calculating eyes fixed on me widened.

“True,” said a puzzled Madyalar. “But you must tell us how a few
months
can work such an

alteration.”

Although I remembered nothing of D’Natheil’s life since I was twelve, Dassine had told me that it had

only been a few months since I—D’Natheil, a prince of some twenty-odd years of age—had been sent

onto the Bridge a second time, crossing into the mundane world on a mission I could not remember.

These people had witnessed my departure. But the details of that journey were embedded in the lost

years of one life and buried under twenty missing years of another. Spirits of night . . . what had

happened to me?

My tongue stumbled onward. “I’ve worked hard at improving myself and continue to do so.” Without

further word, I moved on to Exeget.

Permit no questioning. Keep silent. Satisfy them. Get rid of them
. These commands burst into my

head as if I had thought them myself.
Concentrate, fool
. That command was my own.

“Our hopes and good wishes are with you, my lord Prince”—Madyalar spoke quietly to my

back—“and, of course, the wisdom of Vasrin.”

I nodded, hoping I hadn’t offended her.

By an immense act of will I did not flinch when Exeget laid his perfectly manicured hands on mine. I

knew he watched for it, hoped for a hint of cowering to demonstrate that he had power over me. For the

greater part of the three years I’d spent in his custody, I had devoted my entire being to making sure he

never received such a demonstration. I had never feared him, only despised him, but his hands had been

heavy. Neither cold nor warm, neither soft nor hard, no roughness or other mark of age marring their

smooth perfection. He took great pride in his hands, and had always required a servant to bathe and care

for them after he beat me. In those vile years he had claimed that he could allow no one else to take on

the onerous task of my discipline, as only a parent or mentor was permitted to chastise a child of my

rank. But his apologetic disclaimers had not deceived me. He had enjoyed it immensely.

I confess I left him kneeling longer than the others, not so much to prove I could, but for the simple

fact that I didn’t want to touch him again. Perhaps he felt the same. I had scarcely brushed his shoulder

when he popped to his feet.

“We rejoice, my lord, in the happy outcome of your journey.” A nice sentiment, belied by his

demeanor that expressed little of rejoicing and much of suspicion and arrogance.

I kept my mouth closed and my expression blank.

He spoke as much to the others as to me. “Master Dassine says that your ordeal in the mundane

world has been a great strain, requiring a period of withdrawal from your duties, duties you’ve scarcely

begun. Will you require ten more years in Dassine’s care before your people have the benefit of your

service?”

“I’ll do whatever I think best, Master Exeget,” I said. To speak in calm generalities with a straight

face is much easier when one is absolutely ignorant. An advantage in a confrontation such as this. It’s

difficult for barbs and subtle insinuations to find their mark when the expected mark is missing.

“Whatever
you
think best? Please tell us, my lord Prince, what is it you think best? For more than

three months we have sought your counsel and have been rudely put off by our brother, Dassine. For ten

years before your journey, you failed to seek any counsel but that of this same man, and we were not

allowed to speak with you unsupervised. You had no experience before you left us and have had no

experience since your return. What assurance can you give us that your ideas of what is
best
have any

foundation in reality? Why does Dassine keep you hidden?”

Ce’Aret and Ustele had not moved a step, yet I felt them close ranks, flanking Exeget like guardian

spirits. “The Heir of D’Arnath is the servant of his people, yet he does not even know his people, nor do

his people know him,” croaked Ce’Aret. “As Madyalar says, you are much changed. I wish to

understand it.”

“Perhaps Dassine has hidden him all these years so we would
not
know him,” said Ustele. “Can any

of us say that this is, in fact, D’Natheil?”

The room fell deadly silent. Expectant. I knew I should say something. What sovereign would permit

such an accusation? But my head felt like porridge, leaving me unable to summon a single word of sense.

“Master Ustele, what slander do you speak?” To my astonishment it was Exeget who took up my

cause, donning the very mantle of reason. “Who else would this be but our own Prince? True, his body

has aged, and his manner is not so ... limited ... as it was. But he has fought a battle on the Bridge—done

this healing that has preserved and strengthened the Bridge and given us hope. Such enchantments could

surely change a man.”

“As a boy he was touched by the Lords. We all knew it,” snapped Ce’Aret. “Never did this prince

demonstrate any gift of his family. He killed without mercy and did not care if the victim was Zhid or

Dar’Nethi or Dulcé.”

“And where was it the beastly child finally found some affinity?” asked Ustele. “With our brother

Dassine who had just returned from three years—three years!—in Zhev’Na. Dassine, the only Dar’Nethi

ever to return from captivity. Dassine, who then proclaimed wild theories that contradicted all our beliefs,

saying that our determination to fight the Lords and their minions was somehow misguided, that training

our Prince in warfare was an ‘aberration.’ And when he could not convince us to follow his way of

weakness, of surrender, he took the Heir and hid him away. What more perfect plot could there be than

for the Lords of Zhev’Na to corrupt our Prince?”

The others talked and shouted all at once: denials, affirmations, and accusations of treason.

“Impossible!” shouted Exeget, silencing them all. “D’Natheil has done that for which we have prayed

for eight hundred years! The Gates are open. He has walked the Bridge, healed the damage done by the

Lords and the chaos of the Breach. We have felt life flow between the worlds. He has foiled the plots of

the Lords that would have destroyed the Bridge. All we ask is to understand it. His duty is to lead us to

the final defeat of the Lords of Zhev’Na and their demon Zhid. We only want to hear how and when that

will come about.”

I couldn’t understand why Exeget was defending me. Their arguments had
me
half convinced.

“We’ve all heard the rumors of what passed in the other world,” said Ce’Aret. “That D’Natheil

allowed three Zhid warriors to live, claiming to have returned their souls to them. That the only ones slain

in that battle were the loyal Dulcé Baglos and a noble swordsman from the other world. Has anyone seen

these Zhid who were healed? Was D’Natheil successful? Perhaps the victory at the Gate resulted from

the sacrifice of another of the Exiles and not D’Natheil at all. Perhaps the Prince failed at his
real

task—his traitorous task—of destroying the Bridge.”

The accusation hung in the air like smoke on a windless day. Gar’Dena’s broad face was colorless,

his eyes shocked. “Tell them these things are not true, my lord,” he said softly. Exeget spread his arms

wide, waiting for my answer. Madyalar’s face was like stone. Even Y’Dan’s head popped up. They

were all waiting. . . .

Permit no questioning. Keep silent
. Dassine stood just behind me. Though his fury beat upon my

back like the summer sun, he held his tongue. No one spoke aloud. Yet from every one of the

Preceptors came a similar pressure, the throbbing power that was so much more than spoken anger or

demanding trust, the battering insistence that I speak, that I explain, that I condemn myself with truth or

expose myself with lies or justify the faith some held in the blood that filled my veins. These seven were

the most powerful of all Dar’Nethi sorcerers. I felt myself crumbling like the wall of a besieged citadel. I

had to end it.

“Master Exeget, I’ll not explain myself to you ...” I began, wrapping my arms about my chest as if

they might keep me from flying apart.

“You see!” said Ce’Aret, shaking her finger at me. “Dassine has made us a tyrant!”

“. . . until I have completed my time of recovery with Master Dassine. Then I will appear before the

Preceptorate to be examined. If you find that I am indeed who I claim to be, and you judge me worthy of

my heritage, then I will serve you as I have sworn to do, following the Way of the Dar’Nethi as holy

Vasrin has freed us to do. If you find me wanting in truth or honor or ability, then you may do with me as

you will.”

Dassine exploded. “My lord, they have no right! You are the anointed Heir of D’Arnath!”

I turned on him, summoning my convictions as a flimsy shield against his wrath. “They have every

right, Dassine. They—and you are one of them—are my people, and I will have only trust between us.”

I believed what I said, and though it might have been wise to press the point with Gar’Dena and

Madyalar and even Y’Dan, I had no strength to argue. I had to get out of that room. “I cannot say how

long until I am recovered fully. I ask you all to be patient with me and to tell . . . my people ... to be of